Weekend Games II
by jugglequeen
Summary: Sequel to Weekend Games. This time, we see what happened in St. Louis from Tony's perspective.
1. Inventory

**WEEKEND GAMES II**

 **Inventory**

"Go, Tony," I hear her shout from the stands and it pushes me more than anything the Coach said a few minutes ago in the locker room.

Angela and I are in St. Louis. The baseball team I played for as a pro invited me to a charity game. They call us 'Old Timers', but I don't feel old. It's true, some of us have become a bit rusty, and some have gained a few pounds, but most of us are still in pretty good shape, like me. I don't want to sound smug, but I work out a lot to keep my body in shape. It comes easily, though, I love doing all kinds of sports: baseball, basketball, tennis, boxing, running, and, yeah, even miniature golf. Although to my mind, you can hardly call it a sport. It's much the same as with chess. I mean, if you don't get to sweat, it's no sport.

Another thing I despise about miniature golf is that Angela is a better player than I am. I hate losing. So does Angela, we have that in common, and still she let me win once we played. She didn't admit it, but I know she did. And being given a pity victory is even worse than losing.

I'm an obsessive athlete, both on the field and in front of the TV. After the end of my professional career, I stayed in touch with my former coach and teammates all these years. I'm still closely connected to baseball in general and to the St. Louis Cardinals in particular. Whenever they play in New York I get box tickets and invite the whole family. So when I was asked to take part in this Old Timers charity game I asked Angela to come along. Not because I want her to think I'm an old man, but because I'd like to show her a part of my life she doesn't really know much about. We first met after my shoulder injury had already forced me to quit from professional baseball.

Besides, the game is a chance to delve into the good times of my life, when it still went the way it was supposed to. Not that I'm dissatisfied now. I'm not! My life is wonderful. I have a terrific daughter, a well-paid job, I live in a beautiful house in a great neighborhood, and I found a surrogate family for Sam and myself. Angela Bower was our saving grace when life wasn't treating the remaining Micellis too well. She not only gave me a job although I didn't have any experience let alone references, she also opened her heart and offered us her friendship. So did Mona and Jonathan. Not everyone in the neighborhood was this unprejudiced. We encountered quite a few resentments, especially by people like Joanne Parker who think they are better people just because they can afford a big house, a Mercedes, and a private school for their kids.

Angela and I started from being boss and employee, but now we're friends. Good friends. Very good friends. As a matter of fact, I never had a better friend. My friends in Brooklyn are my buddies. I can hang out and have fun with them. They pulled me out of my misery and self-pity after Marie's passing, and I will always be grateful they did, but they're not the ones I share my deepest thoughts with, Angela is. If I had ever wondered what a soulmate was, Angela would've been the answer. I can tell her anything: my dreams, my hopes, my fears, my secrets, my doubts - simply anything. Most of the time I don't even have to tell her, she just knows what's on my mind. It's a wonderful relationship full of trust and affection.

Sometimes I ask myself whether there's even more to it. There's definitely chemistry between us. Not all the time, that would be torture living under one roof, but at certain moments. Like when we were celebrating the second anniversary of my moving in, or at Paul and Isabelle's wedding, or the night we spent together sitting in a two-man sleeping bag up high on a billboard, or when we were stuck in a motel room together for a night dressed in nothing but sheets because our clothes were wet from the rain, or... Well, there have been quite of few of those tingling moments.

Most days of the year, we live together like regular roommates, though. We go through the shopping list and discuss what chores need to be done to the house. Other days, we operate like a well-attuned parenting couple, for example when we looked for a school for Sam or when Jonathan's Dean gave us a sermon because of the boy's recent misbehavior. When we watch TV together and Angela falls asleep with her head on my lap I catch myself stroking her hair absent-mindedly once in a while, because it just feels so natural to do that. Also, we're mistaken for a married couple quite often. People who first meet us tend to call me Mr. Bower or Angela Mrs. Micelli.

But then there are 'those' moments. Those tingling moments I feel so attracted to her it almost hurts and all I want to do is pull her close and cover her face with kisses. I kissed her twice before we got here, I mean really kissed her. Actually, three times, but the first one was an innocent first try of a grown-up kiss between children. She told me her name was Ingrid, and, of course, we thought we would never meet again. But the kisses we shared as adults weren't that innocent, they were definitely grown-up kisses; we've both improved since summer camp.

As a matter of fact, I thought the first would get me fired. It was in my first year as Angela's housekeeper, my position wasn't settled like it is now. We were both drunk, Angela a bit more than I, she doesn't tolerate alcohol very well. We had this silly flour fight in the kitchen while I was baking a chocolate cake for her birthday, and somehow we ended up kissing. I definitely trespassed a border taking advantage of her like that, but it was just too tempting. Ever since the day I moved in, when I caught her making out with her date on the kitchen floor the first night, I had asked myself how those lips tasted. And I found out they tasted delicious. Angela might've affiliated the kiss to the fact that we were under the influence of alcohol, but I was clear enough to realize what I was doing. When she invited me into her bed, though, I knew it would be an incident too serious to overlook the next morning, so I reluctantly refused the offer. The funny thing was that the next morning Angela was utterly convinced the two of us had slept with each other. I guess Mona had talked her into believing it. I told her I was an honorable man and that if we ever had sex - we called it 'losing each other as friends' - I wanted her to be sober to be able to remember it. That was a gutsy thing to say and for a split-second I was afraid to have been too straightforward once again, but then Angela put on a sheepish smile herself and replied that I would also remember it if we ever 'lost each other as friends'.

So this was our first kiss. It took a few years until number two. Angela had been out on a date with one of her former schoolmates, someone named Jake the Snake. He used to be a wild guy known for hustling girls to a place he called Inspiration Point. It turned out that Inspiration Point was his old, ragged sofa he took them to for making out. Angela, the naïve romantic, was so disappointed that her sweet teen memory hadn't been more than a moony idea in her head that I had to cheer her up somehow. So I took her to a silent lake outside Fairfield that came closer to what she had believed Inspiration Point was. We were sitting in my van looking at the romantic scenery when she pulled out her list of things she wanted to do at high school with only one thing not checked off and that was 'make out at Inspiration Point'. And suddenly there it was, my second chance to kiss her, and I seized it, of course. That kiss was even better than the first one because this time we both had our heads on straight. The way she responded made me want to kiss her even more, but I was afraid we might get too far. Angela was in that sentimental mood, it would've been easy to seduce her into making love in the back of my van. I've collected a bag of tricks in my 'wild years' before I got married, I know how to make a woman give herself to me. But hey, Angela was my boss after all! She still is.

It just so happened this morning that we shared our third kiss; on Angela's initiative this time. She told me that she would stay for today's game although I had been stupid enough to kiss Betty Randall in the bar last night. Betty is a busty redhead who's been touring with the Cards as long as I can remember, and she also has a bag of tricks of how to make men surrender. She knew exactly which buttons to push to make me dance with her and eventually kiss her. I could've slapped myself when Angela caught us. We had an argument in our hotel suite later, she threw me out, and I spent the night on Butthead's sofa. Angela, of course, thought I was going to sleep with Betty as a reminiscence of the good old times.

Yes, when I was single and in the heyday of my young adulthood Betty and I fooled around a couple times. No need to judge me! I was a young Italian ballplayer, unspoken for and free as a bird. And Betty was a bombshell with an incredible body and very happy to try out new things in bed, no man would've pushed her away. But I've never been emotionally involved with Betty, it was just for fun. And she knew it. She did it just for fun herself, and not only with me. But the thing is, I'm not into fooling around with her anymore, especially because Angela is here with me.

All I had in mind was to spend a cozy weekend with her, just the two of us: no Bower Agency, no household, no kids, no Mona - just Angela and me. So I was devastated when she told me last night she wouldn't come to see me play. I don't know what made her change her mind, but I'm so glad she showed up at the breakfast buffet this morning to clear the air between us. She told me I didn't owe her an explanation, that I could do with Betty whatever I wanted because we were only faking to be a couple. She said the main reason for her to have come to St. Louis was to see me play ball and that she would do so. Our reconciliation was closely observed by those sitting at the breakfast table and they forced us to seal it with a kiss. We smooched each other on the mouth with pursed lips, not exactly a kiss worthy to remember. But then Angela found out that I hadn't spent the night at Betty's room, and that made her fling her arms around my neck and really kiss me. Boy, I didn't know the woman had that much passion in her! It seemed she wasn't so indifferent to whether or not I had slept with Betty after all.

Are we going to add a fourth kiss to the list this weekend? I wouldn't mind. Angela's kisses are sweet and daring in a way you wouldn't give her credit for. I kissed quite a few women in my life, and I can tell a bad kiss from a good one, and hers are terrific! Shy and cautious at first but intense and demanding when she starts to relax and enjoys. She's a very rational women on the outside but sensual once you get her to a point where she lets her guard down.

Well, we're playing husband and wife this weekend, so anything might happen. We're accommodated in the honeymoon suite as Mr. and Mrs. Micelli. It's a crazy story. When we first came here yesterday afternoon, we ran into some of my former teammates and said Betty. Betty is still sexy as hell and love-crazed as always, so when Angela came back from making a phone call home, leading everybody to the assumption we were married, I simply left it at that. I thought that Betty would turn to some other guy if she found out I was unavailable. But I shouldn't have counted the chicken before they were hatched because the state of holy matrimony doesn't mean much to Betty. She came on to me when I was having a drink with the boys at the bar and I was dumb enough to let her manipulate me. She made me dance with her to 'our' song and suddenly we were kissing, kissing like we used to. And when the music ended and I opened my eyes, I looked right into Angela's.

At first I thought she amused herself as if she was watching some kind of screwball comedy, but then I realized she was shattered and hurt. As if she really were my wife catching me in the arms of another woman. And although she's not, not even my girlfriend, she had every right to be mad at me. How could I stultify and humiliate Angela in front of everybody like this? An hour earlier, I had told her all that mattered to me this weekend was she and here I was kissing another woman. She wasn't playing our little game of pretending we were newlyweds when she ran away and finally threw me out of our hotel suite, she acted like a wife, and I definitely felt like the husband who had cheated on her. The perception sent the chills down my spine. And the feeling I had this morning when she kissed me was even more alarming as it felt so natural. It was like I was really making up with my wife. I know what making up with a spouse feels like from the many times I made up with Marie. We were an Italian couple, we had lots of arguments. We usually had make-up sex in the aftermath, but that's another story.

Sometimes I ask myself whether I'm already in love with Angela and just haven't noticed. What if the passage from our friendship to romance is fluent and I simply don't realize I'm falling in love with her? I've never had a relationship like this with a woman before. I either screwed them or officially dated them with all the frills, but I've never been platonic friends with one. All I can say is that I can't imagine my future without Angela being in it, although I'm not completely sure as what: my boss, my friend, my lover,...my wife?

I have been truly in love only once, with Marie, the woman I married at the tender age of 21. I thought she was mine to have and to hold forever. I never imagined I could lose her before she'd hit thirty. When she was gone, I made that plan to go through the rest of my life without giving my heart away once again. It was simply too painful to lose the one I had given it to. I've followed that plan until now. None of the relationships I was in since I'm a widower were serious or long-living, but the longer I live with Angela, the more I get the idea that I might be able to love again. She's the first woman who is so dear to me that I never want to be without her again. Is that love?

I look at the stands and see Angela clapping her hands. She's standing next to Pam who's going wild, jumping up and down like a bouncy ball. Pam has seen Mike play hundreds of times and she's used to the crazy atmosphere in the stands. I can see that Angela is still trying to adapt, and I give her great credit for delving into my world. She's usually moving within a completely different world, a world full of highly ambitious career people, of successful business executives, and high-potential marketing rookies. I know it isn't easy for her to find a common ground with these people: former jocks and their other halves, most of them traditional housewives who cared for a bunch of children while their husbands were touring the country.

Angela looks beyond origin and upbringing, she measures a person by their goals in life and how much they fight to achieve these goals. I've experienced this attitude of hers firsthand more than once. I know she doesn't look down on me because I'm from Brooklyn or because I don't make as much money as she; and she knows exactly how much money I make. She appreciates my going to college and the way I'm supporting her business. She looks at where I want to go and not where I come from. When I first applied to become president of the PA at the kids' school, she told everyone I was the best thing that ever happened to her. And on the billboard she said she'd be proud of me if I took the job in Washington as president of the national PA. She never realized how much I appreciated those remarks, how much they pushed me forward, especially as they were coming from her, the most ambitious, hard-working, and successful woman I know.

My eyes are glued to her and I must say Angela looks cute in the jersey I gave her before we left for the stadium. It's an original Cards jersey with my number and name on the back. Unfortunately, it's a man's shirt, so even the smallest size I could get looks baggy on her and covers up her slim figure. She might not be well-built like Betty, but she's very feminine. She's feminine in a classy, elegant way, by no means obtrusive or coquettish. I like that, I like that a lot.

"Go, Tony," she yells with her hands cupping her mouth, then she waves at me. I wave back, obviously giving the impression of a love-stricken newlywed husband because Butthead elbows me in the side and mumbles, "If you impress your sweetie pie on the field today, she might reward you in bed later."

That's so typical of him. All he can think of is sex. "Spare me, Butthead!" I snap at him.

"Come on, Batman, you can't grab yourself a perfect ten like Angela and claim all the fun. I want all the details tomorrow!"

"Forget it!"

"I see...a gentleman never tells."

"As sure as night follows day, my friend!" I answer to end that annoying conversation. Besides, what would I have to tell him? Nothing! Or maybe a little something after all?

I can't contemplate any further because the game is about to begin and second base needs to be taken. I'll do my very best to put on a show for Angela. She mustn't regret she stayed to watch me play. And what will come of all this, we'll see.

* * *

Just a short A/N at the end: please note that Tony's list of kisses is not completely congruent with Angela's in chapter 2 of the prequel.


	2. Second Base

**Second Base**

I love playing second base. I spent most of my baseball career playing second base. I possessed the quick hands and feet needed to be a good second baseman. With Mikey on first, I started countless double plays grabbing the ball and throwing it over to him so quickly only a few other second basemen of my time were able to. Plus, Mikey and I understood each other blindly on the field. We still do. It was a pure joy to tag out so many players together with him today.

It was a charity game, I know, no need to hang in as if we were playing the World Series. But a leopard can't change its spots, and neither can a professional athlete, even if he's a retired professional athlete. As pros we had once faced a humiliating defeat against some of the today's opponents, revenge was overdue. And we took revenge, which makes this victory taste even sweeter.

I hurt my shoulder badly many years ago sliding to home plate, so I guess it wasn't very reasonable to perform the very same maneuver again today. I might've hurt myself once more, probably even worse compared to when I still was a young man. But I wanted to do my best to help the team, and I wanted to impress today's most important fan, Angela. I hope she didn't look away that very moment when I scored the run. She doesn't know much about baseball and maybe she didn't realize that we were at a decisive moment of the inning with all bases loaded and one batter already out. I count on Pam that she told her.

We won. We won 6-2 and it feels so good. Winning has always put me in a cheerful mood, I've never been a good loser. I tried to teach my children to be fair losers - yes, I consider Jonathan to be my son - but I didn't serve as the best role model myself. I'm too ambitious and too competitive. You have to be as a jock, otherwise you won't be successful. And I was successful. I wasn't a nationwide celebrity like Reggie Jackson and I was never offered a highly renumerated contract, but I was popular within the baseball community, especially in the city of St. Louis. I received quite a few love letters from female fans and my baseball card was out of print quickly after it had been issued. Unfortunately, there never was a second edition as my accident forced me to retire before it got into print.

Only pros know the exhilaration you get from winning a professional sports competition. Nothing equals the emotional ups and downs a sports career makes you go through. You're on top of the world after a victory and down in the dumps after a defeat. And when you retire, voluntarily or not, you ask yourself whether you'll be as successful with whatever you do afterward as you were as a jock. When I woke up in the hospital after my accident with a plastered shoulder, knowing I wouldn't be able to resume my career, I didn't know what I would do with the rest of my life. What kind of job would I take? Would I still be able to provide for my sick wife and my little girl? At that moment, for the first time, I regretted lacking a higher education. I had no college degree, no vocational training, no nothing. All I was good at was playing ball.

I became a fish truck driver. I wasn't above working as such, don't get me wrong. My father had worked as a garbage truck driver and had never been ashamed of it. I was thankful Mrs. Rossini offered me the job, but I always had the secret feeling I had more in me than that. I never dared to voice my dream of going to college, of becoming the first Micelli to work in a suit. I was afraid the others would laugh at me. Angela didn't laugh when I said I wanted to enroll at Ridgemont - my buddies flipped me the bird, Mrs. Rossini touched my forehead when I told her to see whether I was running a fever, and even Sam thought I was kidding at first - but Angela motivated and pushed me and has supported me ever since. She was the first person who saw in me what I always felt was in there.

That's why I wanted her so badly to see me within my former world. If I screw this whole college thing up, and I might, I don't want her to believe I can't get anything right in my life. I got my sports career right. Too bad fate cheated on me with my accident and didn't allow me to show the world what I was capable of. I might've made it into an All-Stars Team and not only an Old Timers. I might've been inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. I might've earned a lot of money. I might've... Yeah, right, subjunctive! A lot of my life has to be spoken of in subjunctive mood. But some time ago I decided to no longer ask myself the what-if question. Maybe my life needed to go the way it went to meet someone like Angela. Since I know her, I have the feeling that I'm not living in the subjunctive mood anymore. I've matured since I'm living in Connecticut. I'm developing and I'm finally growing into the man I always wanted to be. With the help of Angela Bower.

I'm going to find out soon whether she enjoyed watching the game. Our 'spouses' are waiting for us in the locker room. Angela is not my wife but someone very close to my heart, so I willingly accept her as my spouse on this occasion. Even if we hadn't started faking a couple, I would've wanted her to wait for me in the locker room together with the other women.

For us players, the men's locker room used to be a sanctuary where we were allowed to walk around scantily dressed, throw saucy jokes at each other, and have a beer or two. I've never seen a woman there. I remember one team having a lady manager for a short period of time who wanted to get into her team's locker room after the game. Well, she brought about an uproar. She wasn't allowed, of course, and quit her job shortly thereafter. The Coach allowed the ladies in there this time because this whole event has been a charity thing and rather a family reunion than a competitive game; not as long as we were on the field but for the rest of the weekend. We're celebrating our victory but most of all our years and years of friendship and our common love for baseball.

"Micelli, that was a nice slide to home plate. I didn't know an 'Old Timer' was still able to take off like this," Pedro, one of the outfielders, teases me.

"Yeah, I'll give you that! Your run marked the beginning of our winning streak!" Mike says, patting my shoulder.

"And our double plays were awesome, don't you think?" I wink at Mikey. "As they used to be."

"You can say that again, Pal! Unless some other people, we still have it in us." Mike turns away from me at stares at Butthead. "How often did you miss that ball, Butthead? You used to catch them out of the air as if they were apples in a tree ready to be picked! What happened to you?" He shakes his head and shrugs.

"I was blinded by the sun!" Butthead gives us as an explanation, but the sad fact is that his hand-eye-coordination isn't as good anymore. "But I wasn't the only one making mistakes. Pete's fastballs have become so slow, my grandmother would've been able to hit them out of the stadium."

"Easy for you to say, you haven't had three surgeries because hundreds of thousands of fastballs ruined your shoulder joint," Pete defends himself

"The only one whom the passage of time didn't harm seems to be Micelli," Dave interjects now. "He's still sliding to home plate as ever. Weren't you afraid to hurt your shoulder again, Tony? Or was it more important to put on a show for your sweetheart?" He elbows me in the side. "Hoping for a sign of her awe later?"

Some of them chuckle because of the unmistakable allusion. I was the same back then, we always teased each other about who would get the most attention by the female fans. But I don't want them to talk like this about Angela and me. Firstly, because our relationship is not of that kind - but they don't know, of course, and secondly, because Angela is too classy to be spoken of in such a manner. She's a lady and not some chick one of us picked up somewhere near the dugout.

"Hardy har har, Dave! This coming from a man who sucked in his stomach when that reporter took a picture," I reply, hoping to end the conversation. The others obviously realized my state of mind for they stop making fun. Instead, we intonate the song we always sang on our way back to the locker room after a victory. I feel as if I were beamed back in time and still a successful second baseman playing Major League Baseball, not a housekeeper aspiring after a college degree. I'm surprised I'm enjoying this so much.

"Boys!" Coach Forrester holds his hands up to make us stop chanting as we arrive in front of the locker room door. "Pull yourselves together now! We've invited the ladies in, so I don't want to see any indecent behavior or hear any bad language in there! You got that?" He treats us as if we were still the same bunch of crude fellows and not the grown-up and well-settled family fathers most of us have turned into.

We're pouring into the little locker room, searching for our spouses. Harvey is the first to be welcomed by his wife Bernadette. "So well-played, Honey. As if you never quit!" she happily exclaims and kisses him passionately. Pedro's wife Rosa puts her arms around her husband's enormous waist, beams at him and whispers into his ear, "You were terrific, Cariño!" Even Marcus, who dropped the ball twice and didn't get to first base even once, gets praised by his wife. "Baby, you looked great! Come here, I wanna kiss a winner!" With this, she presses her corpulent body to his and smooches him on the mouth.

I'm scanning the room for Angela until my eyes find her at the rearmost corner. She looks a bit tensed and insecure; she's nervously skipping from one foot to the other kneading her fingers. Then she sees me and the way her face lightens up with a smile warms my heart. I work my way through the crowded room, my eyes never leaving hers.

"We won, Angela," I tell her as if she doesn't know. Stupid.

"I know," she answers in her soothing voice, "I was there." As I said, stupid!

"Did you see how I scored that run?" Gee, I sound like a kindergartner who proudly presents the smiley face a teacher scribbled below his homework.

"Yes, I saw. You were amazing, Tony!"

"You think?" Super-stupid!

"Absolutely. I'm very proud of you."

Now that really warms my heart, it makes it leap for joy actually. That was what I was trying to accomplish in the first place. I wanted to show her what I can do on the baseball field. I'm not sure whether what happens next is part of the role she's playing as my wife or something she simply feels she ought to be doing. Whatever, she approaches me, puts her hands on my chest and looks into my eyes with a smile. "My hero," she breathes into my ear while she's placing a soft kiss on my cheek.

I enjoy the kiss, the feeling of her silky lips on my cheek, but what Angela just said was completely unexpected. I am her hero? No kidding?

She pulls back and looks at me shyly. For a moment, we gaze at each other, not knowing what to do next. The others think we're newlyweds, so we should probably share more than a short peck on the cheek. But I'm all dirty and sweaty, Angela might resent to kiss me. Plus I was the one who threw her into that game of playing newlyweds and I can't tell how seriously she's willing to play. She seems to be as uneasy as I am, being the only ones in the room not kissing like a married couple is weird. So I take her in my arms and place another kiss on her mouth. I keep my tongue where it belongs and pray that it still comes across convincingly enough. Not that I wouldn't like to give her a real French kiss but I don't want to impose anything on her.

The kiss is still nice, though. Angela's lips are full and soft, and she responds. The lip gloss she applied tastes like strawberry. And...wait a sec...holy cow! Is Angela just taking me to first base? I can't believe it, but she's pulling me closer and that definitely is the tip of her tongue on my lips! She's timid but in a way also determined to enter my mouth. Cute. And surprising once again. I'd be a fool if I held her back. I'm definitely not holding her back! She has to know I'm enjoying this. I better show her how much I'm enjoying this.

I'm French kissing Angela. Pinch me, I must be dreaming!

This definitely is the best kiss we've shared so far: we're not drunk, we're not completing some list, we're not observed by anyone as the others are all pretty occupied themselves, even Butthead. Betty has administered to his needs. Coach Forrester is the only one who's without a woman in is his arm. He's talking to a reporter being well-accustomed to this kind of 'post-game practice'.

So, Angela and I are on first base.

She seems to be as comfortable about this as I am. Too bad that although I'm known for my skills as a second baseman, I won't reach for second tonight. Some of my teammates will make it to home plate before the closing banquet starts, I'm pretty sure. 'Old Timers' or not, they still need to work off the adrenaline that floods the body after a victory, and sex is a good method. As a married man, I used to do a hundred push-ups in compensation when Marie was back in Brooklyn with Sam. Push-ups will have to do tonight, too. There's no way Angela and I'll end up in bed, even if everyone will think we do.

Maybe there is a chance to get to second base with Angela after all. I'd love to touch her - not at spots which are inappropriate and too close to third - but her face, her hips or her sweet little tush. Okay, her tush would be pretty much third base, but it looks so appealing. Angela is slender as a wand but nicely rounded where need be. Some men may find her too flat-chested, but I don't. Big boobs never did anything for me, really. Marie was also rather petite with perky breasts.

'You've already checked your boss out quite a bit, Pal!' you might say, and you'd be right. Heck, I'm a healthy male adult with natural desires, and Angela is an attractive woman who stokes a man's fantasies. But for now I'm happy with holding her close and kissing her. I have to think back to our first grown-up kiss at camp. That one lasted 57 seconds and yielded a considerable amount of money. It was a childish competition among half-baked wannabe-Romeos, I know, but the moment I was kissing Ingrid - uh, Angela - I wanted the kiss to go on forever because it was a terrific experience and not because of the bet. My heartbeat accelerated, my stomach did somersaults, and my knees got wobbly. I would've never admitted that to my friends, of course. I was their hero because none of the other girls had hung in with them nowhere near as long as Angela had hung in with me.

Like then, I want this kiss now to go on forever. I was at an emotional high when I entered this room because of our victory, but now I'm going right through the ceiling. My heartbeat accelerates, my stomach is doing somersaults, and my knees start getting wobbly. This woman smells and tastes fantastic. Contrary to me, I'm afraid. I'm dusty and sweaty, but it doesn't seem to bother Angela much. Surprising, as she is a cleanliness fanatic and usually disgusted by dirt and sweat. I remember when she rinsed out my mouth piece before she put it back in during a boxing event. And now she's pressing her body to mine and encircling my tongue like there's no tomorrow. Enigmatic Angela, wonderfully enigmatic Angela.

"Batman truly upholds his reputation, I must say. Get a room Micelli!" I hear Butthead murmur right beside us. As much as I liked being observed and stop-watched by my friends when I kissed Angela AKA Ingrid at camp, I'm annoyed now. And embarrassed. Not because of them, but because of Angela. That was some kind of kiss we just shared. Angela is a sensitive person, she must've noticed that I wasn't kissing her only to put on a show for the others, but that I kissed her because I wanted to. Have I gone too far? But to be honest, the way she reciprocated felt as if she wanted it, too

What is happening with us here? I look into her eyes when we pull apart and see that she's asking herself the same question. She blushes. Poor Angela, she hates showing her inner self to the outside world. I swear if Butthead drops one more indecent remark, embarrassing her even more, I'm going to slap him.

I don't know whether Butthead was going to say anything because suddenly Coach Forrester's deep voice bangs through the room. He wants me to talk to someone from a local newspaper. Bad timing. I don't want to leave Angela alone now. I'd rather take her hand, pull her some place where nobody eavesdrops, and ask her if everything is alright; and probably kiss her again.

"Micelli!" The Coach's commanding tone leaves no loophole, I have to talk to that stupid reporter now. I excuse myself, and Angela lets me go with an encouraging smile as if she wants to tell me that we could resume whatever that was later.

"Coach?" I say once I reached the other side of the locker room where he's been talking to a lank man with a half-bald head and metal-rimmed specs. The guy wears brown cloth pants, a yellow sleeveless sweater over a gray-striped shirt and dark brown suede slippers. This is a sportswriter? He doesn't look like any of the sportswriters I talked to throughout my entire career.

"Tony, this is Marvin Drewinski from the St. Louis Post."

"Happy to meet you, Mr. Minelli!" the guy says holding out his hand. Is it trembling?

We shake. Yes, it's trembling. "It's Mi-c-elli! But you can call me Tony." His hand is sweaty and he seems to be nervous.

"Fine. Thank you. Uh,...Tony,...how do you feel after the victory?"

"Good. I feel good. Winning is nice." I throw the coach a questioning look. What kind of stupid question is this?

"What was it like to play for the St. Louis Orioles?"

"Orioles?"

"I mean, Cardinals! Cardinals, of course!"

Is this Candid Camera? I look at Coach Forrester once again, but he only shrugs.

"Coming back feels good. I missed St. Louis and Busch Stadium."

"Oh, so you've played here before?"

What the...? "Are you making fun of me?"

"No, Sir! I would never do such a thing!" He nervously adjusts the specs on the back of his nose.

"This was an Old Timers Game, all players are former Cards pros!"

"Ah, well, yes, of course, Sir!"

"Are you really a sports reporter? To be honest, you don't seem to be a baseball expert, Marv."

"Actually..." he scratches his head.

"Actually?"

"I'm from the features section," he admits with a nervous cough. "Our regular sports reporter made me come here at short notice because he had to cover a college football match. I...well, I don't know so much about baseball really."

"You don't say!"

I can't believe I let go of Angela because of this dork. It's not his fault that his boss thought college football was more important than some retired baseball pros coming together for an Old Timers game, but he had to go and interrupt one of the best moments of my life. Angela and I might've kissed once again.

On the other hand, where is this supposed to end? I mustn't jump to conclusions just because she kissed me once when our little game asked for it. Angela and I are not a courting couple. She's my boss and I'm her housekeeper. Friendship aside, those are the bare facts. Our family is a complex structure based exactly on this very relation. If we change the founding element of the structure, it might collapse. And we cannot let that happen. We owe it to Jonathan, Samantha, and Mona.

But it's going to be hard to keep my fingers off of her tonight. We share a hotel suite, and I won't spend another night on Butthead's sofa, that's for sure. It's the honeymoon suite, it's made for people sleeping together and not apart. But I saw a sofa in there, I guess it will serve as my bed tonight. I hope it's more comfortable than Butthead's because one more night on a short, hard bedding will ruin my back.

But there's definitely only one bathroom, Angela and I have to share it. Not at the same time self-evidently, but how am I to stand the vision of Angela under the shower just behind the bathroom door? I have to find a way to distract myself when she's in the bathroom. The Coach has just reminded us to get showered and dressed for the closing banquet, so changing into our evening attire will be the first difficult situation we have to overcome.

We follow the others out of the locker room. Most couples are closely embraced or are at least holding hands. All I dare to do is put my hand on the small of her back when I guide her through the door. Some of my teammates are very eager to get to their hotel rooms. They are rather dragging their wives along than guiding them. I know what they're up to. I will work off the energy my body has been flooded with a few series of push-ups. Maybe I manage a hundred like I did when I was still a pro. If not, no problem. All I need to do to get rid of any fleshly desires is to tire my muscles, then everything will be fine.

I hope everything will be fine. I don't want this night to throw a shadow over our friendship. I simply want us to have a wonderful evening at the banquet, and a peaceful night. That's all. And we will have a wonderful evening. We will enjoy the food and the wine, we will have nice conversations, we will dance. Then we will go to our room and have a restful sleep without anything happening whatsoever. And tomorrow morning, everything will still be fine. We will pack our suitcases, fly home, and go on with our Fairfield lives; a beautiful weekend to remember in our luggage. Nothing will have changed between Angela and me. Our friendship will remain unaltered by this night.

Yes! So be it!

Why oh why can't I believe a single word I am saying?


	3. Bathroom Maneuvers

**Bathroom Maneuvers**

I look at my reflection in the mirror. Boy, do I look worn-out! My face is dirty, my hair sweaty, and my white uniform full of stains. I hate to admit that the game took a toll on me, but there's no denying. My muscles are sore and I'm really exhausted. Maybe I shouldn't have done those hundred push-ups. Now I definitely need a shower. A hot shower will soothe my aching body. After that, I'll be as good as new.

The strawberry taste of Angela's lip gloss is still on my lips. That has been some kind of kiss! I still don't know what all of this means for us. Whether it has any meaning at all. And I'm not sure how far we want to go. Well, I know how far I'd like to go with Angela under certain circumstances, but I'm not sure whether it would be a wise thing to go there today considering the fact we have to get back to Fairfield tomorrow and continue living our ordinary lives. Kissing will be okay, though, I think. We've kissed before and it didn't harm our friendship.

I asked to be allowed in the bathroom first. I'm so dirty, I wouldn't even dare to sit on the couch let alone lie on the bed until Angela would be done. So here I am. About to have a shower in this stylish bathroom with peek-a-boo glass walls giving zero privacy. I imagine an actually newlywed couple using this bathroom, the wife having a shower while the husband is brushing his teeth at the sink. Seeing his darling wife soaping her sexy body enwrapped in steam might scream romance for him. Maybe that's exactly the idea of this fancy shower set-up. I'm relieved that at least the wall to the living room is solid, otherwise it would've been too much to bare.

Fancy or not, the water is nice and hot. There's an incredible rain shower head, offering the type of soothing, therapeutic water pressure I need right now. Off with the dirt and the sweat. If I could only keep the strawberry taste on my lips. I wouldn't mind getting myself some more of it later. If I approached Angela when I'm done in here, would she let me kiss her again? Without our little game asking for it, but only because we both want it?

Because we both want it! Gee, this shower really serves its purpose, I must say. It apparently makes me lose my mind. Only because things are going well between Angela and me with our little game, it's not like we've already reached the level of intimacy where we're comfortable with fooling around casually wherever and whenever possible. Well done, Micelli, you've maneuvered yourself into a tricky situation with this newlywed game. One the one hand, you want this play to be a masterpiece, on the other, you don't know what to do if your role and your true self merge too much.

Anyway, there's no use hiding under the shower. I might as well face Angela and see what happens. Maybe she takes over control or her demeanor tells me whether I may venture a cautious pass at her. Go ahead, you amateur actor, turn off the water, towel yourself, put on a robe and vacate the bathroom to give Angela her time in it.

Okay, where are the towels? They must be somewhere! This is a five-star luxury hotel with a state-of-the-art bathroom, there have to be plenty of sumptuously thick super absorbent bath towels. But I can't see any. They wouldn't put them in the bedroom, would they? I see a towel rack, I see a towel shelf, I even see a towel radiator, but I don't see any towels. Could the chambermaid have forgotten to provide them? Really?

Now that definitely is an awkward situation. Here I am, in the throes of early romance with Angela, definitely not yet at a level to share all aspects of each other's private space, star-naked, wet and without anything to dry or at least cover myself up, because now I remember that I saw two fluffy bathrobes nicely folded on the bed, a chocolate heart placed on top. It's the honeymoon suite after all. What shall I do? Sit and wait until I've dried up? Blow myself dry with the hair dryer? Use the foot mat as a towel?

Nah! Come on, what's so bad if I ask Angela to call housekeeping and tell them to bring some towels? I can talk to her through the door, I don't have to stand in front of her in my birthday suit.

No sooner said than done.

I bet someone from the hotel staff will be at the door to our room shortly, awfully sorry and apologizing dozens of times. Why don't I bridge the time under the shower? If I stay out here and get cold, my muscles will stiffen. I want to swirl Angela around the dance floor later, so I mustn't let that happen. Besides, this shower is awesome, nothing like the one I have at home. Why not dally a little longer than usual?

 _"When the moon hits the sky like a big pizza pie...that's amore."_

I love singing under the shower. I bet Angela heard me sing 'Volare', too. She likes my singing. She isn't a bad singer either.

Oh, I hear her knock! Showering time is over, Micelli!

Although,...hmmm,...why don't I use the voyeuristic qualities of this shower? If I pretend to not hear her, she has to open the door. And if she sees something she likes through the glass walls, well,...

I still owe her a glimpse. I got one of Angela when I accidentally stepped in on her at home the very moment she got out of the bathtub. For a split-second, I saw her entire front side. Everything. I was paralyzed, I simply couldn't avert my eyes. Her alabaster skin, her lean legs, slender waist, and nicely rounded breasts hypnotized me. 'Perfection' was the first word coming to mind. With this body, she could easily act as a nude model and would drive all the male painting students crazy.

I felt awful for having gotten her in such an embarrassing situation, although it wasn't really my fault, just a communication lapse. We'd be even if I allowed her to ogle my naked body today. But not my front! I'm not a flasher, and I most certainly don't want to shock her. But I guess my backside would be okay. I know she ogles my dressed butt once in a while, I can read it in her eyes when I turn around.

So what if I pretend I don't hear her knock? She'd knock a little louder, probably bang at the door, but eventually she has to open it and place the towels somewhere in the bathroom. She wouldn't just throw them in, she's far too neat for that. I bet she'd want to place them on the toilet seat and she would have to enter the room to do that. I'm pretty sure she can't help looking in the direction of the shower once she has the chance.

There it is, another knock. And she's calling me. I have to sing a little louder.

 _"When the world seems to shine like you've had too much wine ... that's amore_ _."_

Oooh, she's banging at the door now! Poor, Angela, I can imagine her uneasiness, how she's thinking about what to do next. Come on in, Baby, don't be squeamish, this glass enclosure is big enough for two!

What?

I haven't been thinking what I think I've just been thinking, have I? Are you nuts, Micelli? Why on earth do you have to ask for trouble? What if she really joins you? As pleasant as the experience might be, it would be crazy!

Would Angela really do such a gutsy thing? I mean, she put her tongue into my mouth earlier, but joining me under the shower? No way, never! I know a few women who would, but not Angela. She's not that wild and unrestrained. And even though this shower set-up might be quickening people's fantasies, it's not able to make them do something that isn't their style at all. And I like Angela's style.

Now I can hear the door squeak.

Calm coolness is called for now. I simply continue letting the water flow over my body as if it were the most natural thing in the world having my boss look at my naked behind. And I can tell she's looking. I literally feel her eyes on my skin. And I must admit that part of me wished her hands would be where her eyes are. Naughty housekeeper! Naughty, naughty housekeeper!

"Here are your towels, Tony", I can hear her yell and I notice a slight amount of hysteria in her voice. I can't keep myself from turning my head, but Angela's blond ponytail is all I catch before she slips away through the door.

It takes me a while until my pulse returns to normal after this heady shower. Eventually, I hurry up to get done and give Angela her bathroom time. When I step outside with only a towel around my hips, she looks up from the TV and blushes. She's simply too alluring for me to be able to ignore it. It seems that the push-ups have worked well to tire my muscles, but they failed to kill my longing for this woman. She willingly lets me pull her close and kiss her again. This time, my tongue is the daring one and asks for a grown-up kiss. Angela's doesn't mind, so we neck until my lungs threaten to explode, thus shortening her bathroom time evermore.

I pretend to be sending her under the shower because she'd be running out of time if she waited longer, but the truth is that I can't guarantee anything if I go on kissing her like that. I'm almost naked and her hands are stroking my chest. It's only a short way from where there are right now to the towel edging.

"Oh, I'm dripping on you", I excuse myself while I'm pulling away.

My hair is still wet and waterdrops keep running down my cheek. To further soothe my nerves, I even make a joke about the unique shower. I know it's not nice to tease her with promising I won't sneak a peek at her while she's under the shower, but I can't help it. Teasing is a sign of affection. Why is Mona teasing her all the time? Because of the very same reason. Although the moment Angela choked and turned crimson red, I felt sorry for her. But her guilt-stricken face was priceless, the fear that she might have gotten caught ogling was written all over it. But hey, she decided to look, I haven't forced her. I only led her into temptation.

Now that she's inside the bathroom, my imagination runs wild. That's probably the price I have to pay for having started that bold bathroom plot. I put myself in a sensual mood, and now I have to take the consequences. And those are that I see Angela in front of my mind's eye as she undresses, steps into the shower, lets the water run down her flawless body, soaping her arms, her thighs, her chest,... When my mouth starts to get dry, I know I have to leave this room. So I get my clothes out of the closet and put them on quickly but thoroughly enough to cut a fine figure next to Angela. I'm sure she will look absolutely stunning when she comes out of the bathroom.

Her usual office outfits are a bit too conservative to my liking, with blouses too high-necked, skirts too long, and colors too muted. I understand that she doesn't want to expose her femininity that much in order to be taken seriously as an executive. It's hard enough for her anyway to stand her grounds in a business world dominated by narrow-minded machos who think a woman should content herself with being nice to look at instead of bossing them around. But it's a shame she hides those amazing legs day in and day out.

When Angela dresses up for a night out, she's more daring. I've seen her in gorgeous backless evening gowns, perfectly teamed with a matching purse, elegant pumps, and wonderful jewelry. She's got plenty of jewelry. Heirloom from her two grandmothers, a pearl necklace Mona gave her on her wedding day, pieces she got from Michael, a pair of insanely big diamond earrings her ex-boyfriend Geoffrey once gave her for Christmas. Sam was so cute when she told Angela they looked as if they were real. And she buys herself a piece once in a while. She also has quite a bit of fashion jewelry. She's not that kind of woman who boasts of her riches. I like that in her. Angela's down-to-earth and unpretentious. Not anything like some of our snooty neighbors.

When she comes out of the bathroom, I'm overwhelmed. She's so beautiful, she almost takes my breath away. I've seen her taking that dress into the bathroom on a hanger but on her it looks so much better. She wears her hair in an updo. I love it when she exposes her long neck like that as if she wants it to be kissed. Her sparkling earrings captivate me and that necklace...wow! I like the locket, especially where it's dangling. I must say the corset-like style of the dress works perfectly to accentuate Angela's cleavage, and the locket is attracting my eyes like a magnet. I've never seen her breasts pushed up like that and it's...it's...well, if Mona could see her daughter now, she'd never make fun of her again about being too flat.

I pull out a pink rose from behind my back, the one I bought in the hotel's flower shop when Angela was under the shower. They didn't sell it individually, so I had to buy a whole bouquet together with gerbera and chrysanthemum just to get one single pink rose. The lady looked at me as if I was crazy, and maybe I was, but I know how much Angela loves pink roses. Geoffrey came up with a huge bouquet of log stem red roses once when he wanted to make up after an argument. Too bad he didn't know that a small bunch of pink roses would've done the trick. Red roses for a woman are the standard and somewhat unimaginative. A man giving Angela pink roses shows her he knows her well, and I do know her well.

She thanks me with a warm smile. Then she comes over to me, straightens my dinner jacket and evens my bowtie. Marie always did that. Not that I've taken my late wife to many black tie events but every time I left our apartment she said, 'Let me have a look at you!' Then she scrutinized me from head to toe, straightened my shirt, smiled at me, got on tiptoes and kissed me goodbye.

Angela just brought this memory back to me. She gave me a sensation I realize I've been missing sorely since Marie passed away. I lack the safe knowledge of being tied to someone, of having this one person I can share the ups and downs of my life with, the constant in my life I can always rely on. Maybe that's why I'm enjoying this weekend so much because it really makes me feel I'm married. There's no beating around the bush, I have to acknowledge that I long to be part of a couple again. And it hits me like a hammer that I want nobody else but Angela to be the other part.

Stilled somewhat dumbfounded by the unexpected personal insight, I hold out my hand and drop my line, "May I offer you my arm, Mrs. Micelli?"

Angela takes it and we're off to the closing event of our short vacation. On our way to the elevator, we pass the elderly couple again, the one that saw us fighting yesterday. The woman throws me a patronizing look as if she's convinced I'll screw this up once again. What does she know? I'm not going to screw up anything tonight. I'm looking forward to a fun evening with a terrific woman at my side.

"So, are we in for some marital fun tonight?" I say and realize instantly the ambiguity of the wording. "I-I meant having dinner and dancing, not..."

"I know what you meant, Darling," Angela replies with a smile and an undertone of playfulness. "Relax, Tony! Leave it with me, I'm going to give a farewell performance tonight none of us will ever forget."

I wonder whether Angela notices the ambiguity of her words and whether she intended to be ambiguous or not in the first place. Why do women have to be so undecipherable? I sometimes ask myself whether we speak the same language. When she said she'd give a memorable farewell performance tonight, did she mean right now at the banquet or was she talking about giving a private show later in our hotel suite?

I don't have the foggiest idea. I can only say that my heart is pounding like mad when we enter the ballroom.


	4. Snow Globe

**Snow Globe**

Angela is the most beautiful woman in the ballroom, that much is certain. I noticed with some satisfaction that some people were looking at us when we crossed the hotel lobby on our way to the Crystal Room. I'm proud to be such an elegant woman's escort. Angela makes other people - male people in particular - turn their heads. The other players' wives have also spiffed themselves up, and they do look pretty, but they can't hide the rather humble background they're coming from. Angela has class, and one can see it in everything she does and says, and in the way she dresses. She plays in a different league, the Major League of Conduct, so to say. Only being escorted by the housekeeper doesn't fit in the perfect picture, even if he's dressed in a tuxedo. Understandably enough, I won't charge her with misconduct in this particular case.

"Over here," I hear Butthead yell through the ballroom. He beckons us over to a table where he's seated together with Mike and Pam. "Dave and Shirley will be joining us soon. I'm saving a place for them." He stands up and offers Angela the chair next to him. "Wow, Angie, you're hot! The two of us will rock the dance floor later!"

"Ey-oh, Butthead! Would you please stop making a move on my wife?"

I don't want to sound so possessive, but I do. I'm playing the jealous husband, but I'm definitely not playing being jealous. I want Angela to rock the dance floor with me later and nobody else. Actually, I want to pull her close into a slow dance, putting my arms around her waist. That would be like killing two birds with one stone: I'd be able to touch her tenderly, plus we'd make a perfect newlywed couple for the others. She said she wanted to give an unforgettable farewell performance, that could be part of it.

As soon as all the players have arrived and are seated - some with a happy smile on their face which is probably not because of reaching home plate on the field but in the bedroom - the Coach stands up and gives an entertaining speech. He starts with some anecdotes of former times, not sparing us the embarrassing ones, and finishes with the words, "Boys, you made an old man very proud today. All of you did a great job out there,...some more, some less." He pauses for a moment, and some of us chuckle. "But today's goal hasn't been to win, although it feels wonderful to have rubbed their faces in the dirt." A triumphant grin appears on the old man's face. "Today's goal has been to celebrate our common passion for baseball. It's a wonderful sport. It lets boys grow into men. And when I look around this ballroom, I see boys who have all developed into great men. Responsible, honest, and successful men, who forged new identities after baseball, care for their families, and became valuable members of their communities." Coach Forrester shakes his head and takes a deep breath. "There seems to remain only one problem child."

For a brief moment, I think he's talking about me, the person who became a fish truck driver after his career and later on a housekeeper. The person who's going to college at the mature age of 37. The person who gets paid by the woman who's sitting right next to him. And when the Coach raises his glass and holds it out in the direction of our table, I'm positive. But then his eyes bypass mine and rest on Butthead's.

"Butthead, you haven't grown at all!" Butthead facial features get out of control, but the rest of us has to suppress a grin. Except me, I let out the breath I've been holding. "But the ones who give you the most trouble, are ones most loved." Butthead rises from his seat and bows.

"I'm glad our baseball family has been expanded by so many beautiful ladies," the Coach continues. "Celebrating in a fancy ballroom like this, all dressed up and about to enjoy some gourmet food as well as some expensive wine, is much better than hanging out in a bar with a couple of beers and some nuts!" We all laugh and acclaim. Butthead whistles through his fingers, a problem child in the true sense of the word. "So, let's get the party going!" the Coach concludes with his glass raised, "To baseball!"

All the glasses are raised and clinked before everyone is drinking a toast to baseball.

"Lovely speech," Angela whispers to me.

"Yeah, I didn't know the Coach was so eloquent. He used to yell at us only in three-word sentences like 'Score that run!' or 'Hit that ball!' I never knew he had a vocabulary this abundant," I reply utterly impressed.

"Maybe he's improved himself over time. Just like you." She squeezes my hand and gifts me a wonderful smile.

"Only with your help," I reply, kissing the back of her hand.

"Awww," Pam sighs, "how sweet! When did you last kiss my hand, Mikey?" Mike looks at me and rolls his eyes.

As soon as the buffet has been opened I get a plate with starters for Angela and me to share. Not because I feel I have to, but because I want to spoil her. She's my date and deserves to be treated as such. Of course, I notice that I'm the only man waiting on his 'wife', eyed intently by the other women at the table. When I'm at the dessert buffet, loading a plate with cheesecake, chocolate mousse, key lime pie, raspberry panna cotta, and some salted caramel, Mike grumbles behind my back, "Would you stop playing Mr. Perfect, Tony! You make the rest of us look like careless scum!"

"All I'm doing is getting some desserts for Angela."

"No, that is not all! You already served her a plate of starters, you refill her glass whenever she takes a sip, you pick up her napkin, you compliment and make mooneyes at her, you kiss her hand,... My shin is bruised from the kicks Pam keeps giving me under the table. Only because you're newlywed and lovey-dovey doesn't mean you have to give our wives any stupid ideas. I won't wait on Pam, that's for sure!"

"Why not? Why can't men wait on their wives, why does it have to be the other way around all the time?" I ask him.

"Great, Tony, next thing you propose is I should dust and fold laundry?"

"You could."

"Don't be silly! I earn the bread and Pam cares for the house and the kids. We're a traditional couple, and it's good the way it is. From what you say I take it that Angela and you aren't?"

Well, no, Angela and I are definitely not living the traditional way. "What if this were the case?"

"What? Does Angela have a job?"

"As a matter of fact, she does."

"So you're one of those modern double income couples?"

"We are." Only that my income is a business expense to Angela, but I don't mention this special feature of our relationship. "It's nice to share the burden. We're a team in caring for our family."

"Fine. Well, I guess I could handle it if Pam had a job as long as I don't have to vacuum the house or go grocery shopping. Pam's free to do whatever she wants in her spare time, if she wants to go working someplace, I don't mind. But I'm glad she doesn't."

"Because you don't want to undertake any household duties," I continue Mike's line of thought.

"Exactly. And I don't want her to outdo me making money, which is never going to happen, of course!" He's shaking with laughter as if this has been some kind of ridiculous, absurd idea, something so far from becoming a reality, that it's not worth giving it another thought. If only he knew! On our way back to the table, he lays his arm around my shoulder and murmurs, "Men are the breadwinners and men are supposed to be wearing the pants at home. Right, Batman?" I can manage a sneer but cannot understand Mike's old-fashioned way of thinking. Why is a man less a man if his wife has a successful career and makes a fair income? Is manhood only about making money and being the family patriarch? If this were the case, I would never be allowed to feel like a man in a relationship with Angela. Not that we already are in a relationship, but I know she'd let me feel like a man if we were.

My conversation with Mike is still bothering me when we get back to our table. I place the plate with the desserts I've chosen in front of Angela. "Here you go, Sweetie, I've got you some of your favorites."

"Caramel! Thank you, Honey," she exclaims delightedly, "You simply know how to make me happy."

Although this is part of our performance, especially calling each other by nicknames, I know Angela means it from the bottom of her heart. She doesn't take it for granted that I serve her dinner or keep her house immaculate, although it certainly is in my job description. She never grows tired of telling me that she couldn't be successful without my support, that her success at the Bower Agency is partly mine. Just like my success at college is partly hers. That's what a good marriage is all about: it's a partnership rather than a relationship of dependency. I know Angela is seeing it this way, and I'm seeing it this way. Boy, the Micellis would make a terrific couple, _and_ would teach others a lesson of modern life!

After Angela has finished her dessert, I instantly ask her for a dance to forestall Butthead. I've been looking forward to dancing all evening. The band is playing 'It Had To Be You' in a Tony Bennett version, the perfect song to start with. I pull Angela toward me, encircling her tightly until not even a sheet of paper fits between us. We're so close that her cheek is touching mine. Her skin is smooth like silk and soft like a peach. I place her right hand on my chest. She can't feel my heartbeat, the fabric is too thick, but if she could, she'd notice it's accelerating.

Angela willingly follows my lead across the dance floor. No matter what the tempo or the rhythm is, she anticipates my moves and easily joins in. We understand each other blindly and without words, it's almost as if we're becoming one. Then she starts stroking the hair at my neck and I'm tempted to let my hand travel down her back all the way down to where her cute little tush begins. Unfortunately, the band foils any plans to carry on flirtations with changing into a boogie-woogie. Angela and I pull apart abruptly and look at each other.

"The bar?" I ask. She nods.

I take her hand and guide her through the now excessively boogieing couples. At the bar, I order two Manhattans.

"You're not trying to make me drunk, Tony, are you?"

"No, definitely not! Last time you were drunk, you passed out and I had to carry you to bed. I don't want this to happen tonight."

"You...don't want to carry me to bed?"

"I...don't want you to pass out."

"I see," she whispers, slowly putting her glossy lips to the rim of her glass. She takes a tiny sip, then licks her lips and throws me one of those intense looks we share once in a while. She creates so much chemistry between us, I hope nobody near lights a cigarette. I'm getting the feeling this night might turn out in a way both of us won't forget. The mere prospect of what could happen later in our hotel room, when we're alone, makes my insides quiver.

But then I can't believe I'm hearing the band play the first beats of 'On Broadway'. I pray that it's just a similar intro to a different song, but when one of the singers intonates the first line, I'm hundred percent aware that it is 'On Broadway'. Darn! Did it really have to be that song? The song which made me dance with Betty yesterday and kiss her in the end? From the indefinite variety of ballroom songs, did they have to choose exactly this one at this particular moment?

Maybe I'm lucky and Angela doesn't recognize it.

"Isn't that the song Betty and you were dancing to yesterday?" Of course, she recognizes it. She's so observant.

"Betty who?" I croak.

"Tony."

"Okay, okay! Yes, it's the song."

"Don't you want to ask her for this dance? She's right over there." Angela points above my shoulder to a spot behind me, but I'm not turning around.

"Why would I want to do that?"

"I thought it was kind of your song." Women can be so cruel. Angela's not only cutting me but twisting the knife as well.

"Maybe at that time, but that's over now. It's just like any other song to me."

"Since yesterday, you mean." Cutting, twisting the knife and rubbing salt into the wound.

"Angela, please."

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to tease you."

"Yes, you did! But it's okay. I deserve it. I should've never let it come that far. It was inexcusable."

"But you looked good. Like a professional dancing couple. The lift in the end was quite impressive."

"Ah, well, it looks more difficult than it really is. I could show you how to do it."

"Do you really think you can lift me up like that?"

"Angela, you're a terrific dancer and you're light as a feather, of course, I can lift you up! When we're home, the first thing I do is teach you how to dance to that song. And I'm sure you'll do just fine."

"I'd like that," she whispered.

"It could become our song," I dare to propose.

"I'd like that, too."

I, on my part, would like to drag Angela into our honeymoon suite right away, but courtesy requires we show up at our table and say goodnight.

Had I known that Mike and Pam have already retreated because they're 'sans kids' as Butthead points out, that Dave and Shirley have joined some people at another table, and that Butthead is more interested in a brunette at the bar who could be his daughter than in socializing with us, I would've skipped the detour. This is our last night as Mr. and Mrs. Micelli, some undisturbed time just for the two of us is being called for. And I'm still eager to find out what Angela meant when she was saying earlier she wanted to give a memorable farewell performance.

When I finally close the door behind us, secretly placing the 'Do not disturb' sign outside, I spot a bottle of champagne in a cooler on the table. It turns out the hotel management has come down handsomely, treating us a bottle of Dom Perignon. A perfect way to prolong the evening. But first I have to massage Angela's feet. I never understood how women were able to survive a whole evening in high heels. They have gorgeous legs in them, but it must hurt awfully. When she starts moaning during my treatment, I'm so much turned on that I not only massage her feet but her ankles and calves. When I'm tempted to move on to her thighs, I let go of her. After what one can almost consider foreplay, I need some champagne to cool me down. So I jump off the couch, open the bottle with a loud pop, pour two glasses and hand one to Angela. When our eyes connect while we clink and sip, I want to kiss her, and I think she wants to be kissed, but would it be right to bring matters to a boil? If we start kissing now, will we be able to stop? And if we don't stop, will we be able to hold ourselves back once the bodily yearning sets in?

It breaks my heart to see her so disappointed when I leap from the sofa once again. A moment ago, Angela's eyes were sparkling and her lips gleaming, but now she looks at me with a questioning expression on her face, her lips pursed into a fine line. I don't know what to say. I don't know what to do.

Angela's the master of the situation faster than I am. I've admired her self-control many times, but right now I'm in awe about the way she's able to pull herself together. "Tony, uh, since we're not really a couple,...how shall we proceed with changing into our PJ's and sleeping?" she asks me.

I propose she'll change in the bathroom and I shall do so in the bedroom. I don't have any idea how to solve the sleeping problem, though. The sofa looks even more uncomfortable that the one in Butthead's room. It's definitely too short for me to lie down. Maybe I can get some sleep sitting on it.

When Angela comes out of the bathroom in a simple nightshirt with an imprinted cow at the front saying 'I am moooody in the morning', I can't suppress a grin. She's really somewhat peculiar with her nightwear. Don't get me wrong, I love sitting beside her at the breakfast table when she's in her pink robe. I first met her in that pink robe. And I love seeing those bunny slippers coming down the stairs. Sometimes, she puts her hair up in pigtails just like a five-year-old. All of this topped by the funny shirt she's wearing right now. What's really nice about it, actually, is that it's so short I can see her panties when I follow those flawless legs from the toes all the way up to...ugh, stop it, Tony! You're stepping on forbidden ground.

I wonder what's behind this rather childish nightwear. Angela could easily afford expensive, lace-trimmed, silky things. Pieces one buys in luxury lingerie boutiques on Fifth Avenue and carries home in little extravagant shopping bags. Pieces she'd drive any man crazy with and make him want her to be out of as quickly as possible. Pieces stimulating any man's libido. That's probably the reason for her to be not running around the house in pieces like that; she doesn't want to stimulate my libido, which is reacting right now, however. Is it because of the inappropriate fantasies about my boss in a black silky negligé or because my so-called 'wife' is standing right in front of me almost naked?

I'm not sure whether Angela notices my arousal. If she does, she's not showing. But she's uncomfortable, that's obvious. She tries to stretch the short shirt over her tushie. That's a part of her body I haven't seen naked so far. I saw her front only, but I bet her backside is equally perfect. We're even now, each of us has seen one-half of the other naked. I walked in on her at home once, and today she walked in on me. Only that she doesn't know I purposely let her see what she saw. Of course, I was tempted to get a sneak peek when she was under that peek-a-boo shower, but I held myself back. I violated Angela's privacy once, I sure won't do it again.

It's harder to hold myself back right now, though. She looks so alluring and she smells intoxicating. Or is it the rose she put into a little vase on the table? I appreciate she cherishes it that much, it's only a simple pink rose after all.

Angela blushes with embarrassment when I tell her that there are moments I can see the shy, insecure girl whom she hides underneath the unflinching business woman. I know that with this I'm pulling the guard down she works so hard to keep up most of the time, even in front of me. Her sudden vulnerability makes me take her in my arms, stroke her hair and assure her that this little girl is enchanting and not naïve as she calls her. I place a soft kiss on her cheek trying to show her that I like her the way she is, that she doesn't have to put on a mask for me. But I have gotten too far obviously because she peels herself out of my embrace and takes a few steps away from me.

"Tony, this game of pretending we're newlyweds has been a lot of fun," she starts and I instantly know that her farewell performance has come to a close. This is not the playful, cheeky Angela in front of me anymore, the one willing to challenge that invisible divide between us. I'm facing rational Angela, a woman who's switched on her brain and isn't listening to her heart anymore. I know it, I've seen this metamorphosis happen right in front of my eyes many times.

I hear her talk about that we might be doing something we'd regret if we - and I can't believe she speaks it out loud - if we had sex. Kissing was something we could take a step back from, but not sleeping with each other. We could be risking our family, the family we both love so much, and that she wasn't willing to do that. And although I feel like she's kicked me in the stomach, I know she's right with every word. With putting a halt to it now, she's not rejecting me, but protecting the little cosmos we've built up so carefully throughout the last five years.

We need more time. We're both not ready yet. And still, I feel like a tiny figure in a snow globe someone keeps shaking anew every time the snow has just settled. The minute I'm thinking that I have worked something out with Angela, I'm painfully reminded that our relationship is complicated and not in our own hands only. Just like at this very second. I know she's longing for me as much as I'm longing for her, but we're not allowed to think about us only. We carry responsibility for more people than just us. So I agree with her that we should set aside our dreams and hopes about romance and do what's necessary to give our children the safe nest they deserve; all three of them.

Angela and I agree to get back to normal and terminate the very tingling but also venturous game between us. One the one hand, I'm sad, on the other, relieved. For nothing in the world would I risk my friendship with Angela. It's the best I've ever had. As tempting as it might be to share a night of passion, and I bet it would be a night to remember, I would never forgive myself if it harmed our friendship.

The moment I'm done whitewashing - I know I'll regret missing this chance to make love to her until the end of my life if I never get another one - Angela shakes the snow globe again.

"Don't you think we can share the bed tonight, Tony? As friends?" she asks me in all seriousness.

I don't have an answer to this question right now, the only thing I can do is grab my stuff, retreat into the bathroom and give myself time to think about it. It is a big bed, yes, but what if I touch her naked thigh accidentally? What if her shirt rides up at night and I touch her naked waist? What if we toss and turn in our sleep and end up closely intertwined? I wished I had packed long pajama bottoms, but I haven't. A night in a bed together with Angela would be quite an adventure, that much is certain.

When I step outside, Angela's already in bed. If one looks at it rationally she's right, it should be big enough for the both us. Only that my libido isn't that susceptible to rational reasoning. But then I have a quick look at the sofa, and my mind is set: I'm going for the more comfortable option. So I join Angela, paying attention to not touch her when I crawl into bed. Although we both make sure to not violate the no-go zone between us, I feel her warmth and nearness under the blanket we share. This is going to be a tough night!

After a few minutes of getting used to the situation, I cross my arms behind my head, and I realize I made the right decision. This is nice and comfy. The mattress is firm but soft, the blanket fluffy and the pillow plushy. And I have Angela lying right next to me. The whole set-up makes me propose something bold, causing another one of those snowstorms.

"Angela? Do you think we're mature enough and able to tame our instincts for me to take you in my arm?"

It's good to see that she's struggling with the circumstances as much as I am. When she finally snuggles up against me, I can't help but smile. Her hair smells like strawberry just like her lips tasted a short while ago. Is this her natural scent or her perfume? I start to believe this whole woman is as delicious and sweet as a red, succulent, luscious strawberry. To my surprise, her hand on my chest makes my pulse slow down and not accelerate.

'This is so good,' I keep thinking while I'm slowly drifting off to sleep, letting the snow finally settle peacefully.


	5. Bottom of the Ninth

**Bottom of the Ninth**

I wake up on this day our little game will come to an end. Surprisingly enough, I had a good sleep. I was afraid the mere fact that I was sharing a bed with Angela would keep me awake for a long time, but quite the contrary happened. After I enclosed her in my arms she fell asleep so quickly that I was able to relax. It felt good to hold her, her head on my shoulder and her hand on my chest.

She's not in my arms anymore, but she's still beside me. From her rhythmic breathing I get she's still sleeping. I look at the clock on the nightstand: 6:30. We're not in a hurry. I can let her sleep. She needs it. This woman works a lot and she works hard, plus she's been having trouble sleeping. Good for her that she had a night of deep, replenishing sleep. Good for me that she had it in my arms.

She looks lovely. She's curled up under the blanket, her head rests peacefully on the pillow with her hair spread all over it. A sleeping face any man would love to wake up to. Her skin shimmers in the morning light like silk and satins and none of the wrinkles that appear on her forehead or between her eyebrows when she's highly focused over a campaign draft are there now. There's a slight smile around her lips as if she's having a nice dream. Then she purses them and her eyelids start fluttering. Eventually, she opens those big brown eyes of hers and looks at me. I can't say she's surprised or flabbergasted to see me, she seems rather pleased and elated.

"Uh, good morning, Angela," I wish her timidly.

"Good morning, Tony." She stretches her arms and legs luxuriously and sighs.

"Did you have a good sleep?"

"Wonderful. And you?"

"Very good."

"I told you we could handle the situation."

"Yeah, you were right."

I can't help but stare at her. I'm in bed with Angela! Even if we only spent a platonic night with each other, we still spent it as Mr. and Mrs. Micelli in the honeymoon suite of a hotel in St. Louis - quite an adventure.

"Please stop looking at me like that, Tony. I bet I look awful."

"Not at all."

I kiss her, on the mouth. She looks at me with wide eyes. Now she is flabbergasted.

"What? You don't like morning kisses?"

Most people don't like them. They believe they don't taste good because of bad morning breath. But I say, if you don't love the woman you find in your bed in the morning exactly the way she is, you don't love her at all. And I love Ang-...I mean, I love kissing her. Even without brushed teeth, her kiss is delicious.

"I do like them, it's just that..."

"What? Michael didn't kiss you in the morning?"

I don't ask her about Geoffrey or other men. It's not my business whom she slept with to begin with, and I don't want her to think I'm assuming she's been with many men, which I don't as a matter of fact. Geoffrey's been the only one she was seriously involved with since I've been around. Gawd, I bet he rinsed, brushed, and flossed before he even thought of kissing Angela! He was such a dork. There's nothing more intimate than being together with a woman when she's not all spruced up, when she lets you see her flaws. That is where you want to get to in a relationship, don't you? To a point where you can just be who you are without the necessity of being perfect.

One way or the other, she is beautiful this morning. This is the true, authentic Angela I see in front of me, without makeup, styled hair, and - most of all - without her protective guard which is her business outfit. In the figurative sense, she's naked. There needs to be a lot of trust between two people to expose themselves like this, and it feels good to know that our relationship has reached that level.

In my life, I've woken up to quite a few women I didn't want to kiss in the morning. Women I met when I was on the road as a pro - a single pro, of course. After I had married Marie, I easily abjured the rest of the female part of the population, and although Betty tried to lure me into bed regardless of my marital status I never gave in. 'You don't have to tell Marie,' she used to say. She said the same thing in the bar after Angela threw me out of our room. 'Let's commemorate all the good times, Batman. You don't have to tell Angela.' But I'm not that kind of guy. A marriage vow is sacred to me, even if I'm only pretending to be married.

"Uh, well, no, he didn't," Angela finally answers my question about morning kisses.

"Did you? Want to kiss him in the morning?"

"That's a very personal question, Tony."

"Angela, we're in bed together, it can't get much more personal." Only a bit, and I have to work hard to not think about it right now.

"Maybe you're right." She bites her lip for a moment, then she comes out with it. "Yes, I wanted to kiss him in the morning. I found his tousled hair and unshaven face quite appealing."

'My hair is tousled and my face unshaven, Baby!' I can't help thinking.

The moo-cow shirt is catching my eye as the blanket has slid down to Angela's waist. Even though the neckline is high and the imprint a bit silly, she still looks sexy in it. The way it drapes it accentuates the curves underneath. I loved how her breasts were pushed up last night with the intriguing locket dangling between them like a hypnotist's pendulum. If Angela really was my spouse, I'd be slipping my hand under her shirt now. How could Michael resist her in the morning? Marie and I had morning sex quite regularly. We didn't have too much time to be overly romantic because we needed to get Sam ready for kindergarten, so we skipped foreplay most of the time and got down to the nitty-gritty quite fast, but we always enjoyed it. It was a wonderful way to start the day. Maybe Michael just wasn't a morning person. Angela is.

"What time is it?" she asks.

"Not even 7 o'clock. We still have plenty of time."

"And what are we going to do with all of that time? Play a game of gin rummy?"

I don't really know what kind of joke that was meant to be. She raises her eyebrows in a way I can't interpret, but I have an idea what we can do. "What about a morning coffee in bed? I could call room service."

"Oh, that's a great idea. I have to use the bathroom quickly, I'll be right back."

While she's gone, I call room service and order two coffees and an orange juice. I fluff up the blanket and pillows and open the curtains to let the morning sunshine in. A few minutes later, the waiter knocks at the door and serves a tray with two mugs of steaming coffee, a little jug with hot milk, a silver sugar bowl, a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, two chocolate chip cookies, and the bill. After I signed and tipped him, I place the tray at tonight's no-go zone in the middle of the bed and wait for Angela to come out of the bathroom.

For a moment, I was afraid she might return in one of the bathrobes the hotel provided, but she's still in her nightshirt only when she opens the bathroom door. I'm delighted that she seems to be totally comfortable moving around so barely dressed with me in the room. She brushed her hair though and I think she applied a bit of perfume. At least, she smells like she did. When she slips back under the blanket our feet touch, and I'm wondering whether she did it on purpose or not. Women move in mysterious ways, Angela in particular. She once told me that playing footsies had made her elope with some guy she met at poetry class when she was a young student. I decide to seize the chance that has been offered to me. "Oh, your feet are cold," I say, rubbing her feet with mine to warm them up. Angela lets it happen and smiles. She tries to hide it, but I notice anyway. So, she did it on purpose, I reckon. This woman really is inscrutable.

"Mmmm, the coffee smells good. Oh, and you got orange juice, too!"

"Of course, I did. I know your morning routine!"

"Yes, you do."

She takes a huge gulp of juice, then puts sugar and milk into one of the coffee mugs, stirs deliberately, and hands me the other.

Just like I know that she drinks orange juice in the morning, she knows that I drink my coffee black. We're really a peculiar pair, so familiar and intimate with each other, and then again so far apart. If somebody saw us now, they would take us for a married couple without a doubt, and we're not even pretending anything at the moment. We're just us. Sometimes I ask myself why this can't be enough. Do I need more than the affection, the closeness, and the trust we already share?

We both lean back on the bed's header and sip our coffees somewhat lost in thought.

"Cookie?" I ask just to get the conversation started again.

"No, thanks. I'm not hungry, and they aren't as good as yours anyway."

"Probably not."

Another moment of silence occurs. I look at her and realize that the affection, closeness, and trust altogether are wonderful, but that I am physically attracted, too. In a way, a male employee shouldn't be to his female boss. But I can't help it, it's a subliminal stimulus I can't fight. It's like when I was a little boy and spied a freshly baked chocolate cake on the kitchen counter. It looked delicious, it smelled delicious, but I wasn't allowed to taste it, for it had been baked for someone else. And although I knew that trying it would get me into trouble, I simply couldn't take my mind off it. The idea of snipping out a tiny piece, just to take the edge off that ravenous hunger, simply wouldn't leave me in peace. And when I took a piece, and when I got caught and punished, I always asked myself whether the short pleasure had really been worth the risk, and it had always been. I bet it would still be today.

"Tony?"

"Yes."

"What are we going to tell Mother and the kids about this weekend?"

"We don't have to tell them anything. It could remain our little secret."

"I'm afraid it can't. Mother already knows that we're checked in as Mr. and Mrs. Micelli."

"She does?"

"Well, yes. She called me Friday night after I threw you out. The receptionist told her he'd put her through to the honeymoon suite. She thought it was very funny."

Darn, that was just was Mona was waiting for: Angela and me together in a romantic situation. I bet she can't wait to play police detective, cornering each of us separately and interrogating us, just hoping for a mistake in our stories. And when we tell her that nothing happened - at least not what she might've hoped for - she'll shake her head and roll her eyes, probably calling me an idiot and Angela a chicken.

"What did you tell her?" I want to know to be able to prepare for her questioning.

"I told her I wanted to leave, the sooner the better. I was very angry with you at the time as you can imagine."

Yes, I can imagine. Actually, I don't have to imagine, I remember quite vividly. The way Angela was yelling at me and throwing my clothes out into the hallway was unmistakable. I try to gloss over it and focus on something else.

"How did Mona convince you to stay?"

"She used a lovely metaphor about you getting your baked goods somewhere else only because I wouldn't let you share mine. That was why I refused Betty's danish at breakfast, by the way. I know she meant it well, she didn't know what Mother and I had talked about, but I just couldn't bring myself to take anything baked out of her hands," Angela explains, nervously stroking her hair. "Anyway, Mother said that I shouldn't forget what I came here for and that was to see you play ball. She pointed out that you and I were best friends and that I shouldn't miss my best friend's most important day."

I don't understand a single word she's saying about baked goods, but I realize it was an important conversation. Angela obviously listened to what Mona told her, and I'm glad she did. If she had really left yesterday morning, I would've missed one of the best days of my life. And I have the feeling she enjoyed it as well.

"So we owe the last 24 hours to your mother?"

"You might say that, yes." Angela takes another sip of coffee before she fires away a question which gets me into trouble. "Are we?"

"What?"

"Best friends."

"Sure."

"Just...best friends?"

"No. You're my boss and I'm your housekeeper." Airhead! It wasn't necessary to mention that.

"That's not what I was aiming at. We're not really married, that much is certain..."

"But?"

"You tell me whether there's a 'but'."

What am I supposed to say? That I can imagine doing this for real? That I already pictured us walking down the aisle? That I wouldn't mind skipping breakfast and staying in this room with her as long as possible before we have to leave for the airport? No way! I can't be that open. I might start an avalanche I won't be able to stop.

"I guess we're also good surrogate parents to our children."

"Uh huh."

"I mean, to each other's children. You to Sam and me to Jonathan." Angela looks at me so intensely, I almost get lost in her eyes. "That was also not what you were aiming at, right?"

She shakes her head mutely.

"I don't know, Angela. I honestly don't know what to say. You know that you're more to me than just my boss. I've never had a boss like you. I mean, gee, I would've never played a game like this with Mrs. Rossini when she was my boss!" That makes her chuckle and I'm relieved to have lightened the atmosphere a bit. "You're definitely the best friend I've ever had, Angela, and I appreciate all you're doing for Sam and the way you're trusting me with Jonathan."

"You're not getting to the point, Tony."

"The point is, Angela, there _is_ a 'but'. I can't explain exactly what it consists of, let alone when we'll be able to explore it. But it feels good to know that it is out there somewhere. In my imagination, it's something wonderful and exciting, something worth waiting for. I can't totally grasp the idea, but it's simply reassuring to know it's there. Does that make any sense?"

Eventually, a slight smile appears on Angela's beautiful face. "Absolutely," she replies to my relief.

I, personally, don't completely understand what I've just said but it must've been something that dispelled some of Angela's uncertainty, although I don't really know what did it. I couldn't have been any more vague. But I was being honest, and sometimes having no answer is also an answer. And the answer is that I don't have the slightest idea about how to do it right with Angela, so before I do anything wrong, I'd rather leave things as they are. Because they are not bad the way they are, and the only scenario worse than never getting to discover the 'but' with Angela would be losing her. I cannot let that happen.

When we're at the baggage claim at JFK some hours later, at the closing stage of our wonderful weekend trip to St. Louis, I have to think back to our morning conversation. I wished I could've given Angela what she wanted, and deep down I knew what she wanted. She's longing for some kind of commitment from me I'm somehow hesitant to give her. Not because I don't have any feelings for her, but because it still seems so crazy to me that such a lovely, classy, WASPy lady like her even considers getting involved with a tattooed working-class guy with a broken nose like me who's financially dependent on her in addition.

On the plane, I held her hand. Angela isn't really comfortable in an airplane, so I had a good excuse for taking her hand in mine and squeezing it tenderly. All of a sudden 'Why not now?' came to my mind. 'What's keeping you from declaring your love to Angela?' my inner voice asked me. I looked at her and pictured us as a couple. What I saw was a wonderful relationship with my best friend, a relationship full of love and devotion. I could embrace her, caress her and kiss her whenever I wanted; no more suppressed emotions, no more awkward moments, no more procrastinating. Had I asked her at that point whether she wanted to change our relationship, who knows what her answer might've been. Mona and the kids would've been happy for us, saying it was about time we moved up a gear.

So, why can't we?

I'm saying 'we' for I'm not the only one who can't, Angela likewise is not ready yet. There's only one thing I'm terribly scared of: what if while putting our romantic relationship on hold until we're both ready one of us meets someone else? Someone who's available at that very moment? Someone who comes in as a more adequate match? There are a lot of successful, good-looking businessmen, lawyers and doctors out there; Angela meets them every day. What if some kind of charming ad exec courted her? She might give in to the temptation if he did it right. Not only men have needs, women do too.

Am I immune to other women? Right now, I'd say yes. I'm definitely not looking for someone because of my relationship with Angela, however undefined and germinal it is. Like when I was married to Marie and didn't take any interest in other women. I might've flirted with a girl now and then, but I haven't been seriously involved with anyone since Frankie. She wanted to get married but I just couldn't bring myself to accepting her proposal. I asked myself why I hadn't fallen in love with her, and it took me a long time until I found out that it was because of my life at 3344 Oak Hills Drive. I didn't want to move out of that house, I didn't want to quit my job, I didn't want to give up my connection to Jonathan and Mona, and - last but most certainly not least - I didn't want to lose what I had with Angela. If I dated someone else now, I'm pretty sure it would make me feel like I was betraying her. And I don't even want to think about what it would make me feel like if she dated some other guy. As hard as it is, I'm afraid that's a chance we have to take.

I'm so absent-minded that our suitcases are taking turns on the conveyor belt after having been spat out on it. They must've passed us a few times already because we're the only passengers left and a person from the airline is asking me whether we're still waiting for our luggage. "Uh, no, Sir, there it is," I answer with a stupid grin. Angela doesn't seem to notice any of this, she's been very quiet since we left the plane.

Once I've heaved our baggage on our trolley, we're making our way toward the arrivals hall. Mona and the kids are waiting for us at the other side of the glass sliding door ready to embrace us, completely oblivious of what coming home means for Angela and me this time. This time, it's not only bringing joy but also regret; joy by reuniting with our family, regret at terminating our little game. Passing the sliding door will be like the final out of our newlywed game.

Out of an inner urge I can't really control, I pull Angela behind a wall just before the automatic door opens up in front of us and kiss her. I simply couldn't leave such a thrilling weekend behind me without one last tender kiss. And then I know that this is the perfect moment to give her the commitment she deserves. "I can imagine doing this for real, Angela," I tell her, "one day." I need her to know that for me faking a couple is only half as good as really being one.

Angela seems to understand because she smiles at me and whispers, "I see." And without making too much of it, we agree to give it the time we need until we're equally ready to elevate our relationship to another level. The future holds something big, exciting, and profound for us, we only have to find the right moment to unfold it. It's not our time yet. I know this feeling from when I was a pro. After having failed to win a big title, I always told myself, 'Your time will come, Buddy! Good things are worth the wait. One day, it'll be your turn to hold that cup up into the air.' And just as I was finally able to raise a trophy with my team, my time with Angela will also come, I'm sure. With her as my MVP, there's no way I'll fail.

My contemplations have been giving me such a great deal of inner peace, that I can go back to my regular life as a housekeeper now. It's waiting for me in the arrivals hall in the person of Mona asking what's for dinner, Sam begging for money for one of her shopping trips, and Jonathan telling me about his latest science project at school. And maybe even Angela slips back into her usual role as my boss more quickly than she wants to, telling me to pick up a business suit from the dry cleaner or to tidy up the attic.

But I won't mind. Because no matter what will become of Angela and me, we'll always have St. Louis.

* * *

 **Author's Note:** VioletStella asked me what I thought of writing another short piece from Mona's POV, shedding a light on what she perceives about what happened in St. Louis. And I must say, I like the idea...


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